Vin alegerile

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Vin alegerile!

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Încet și trist, ca la madame Bovary

Într-una din cărțile pe care moda fandosită a obsedanților ani ’80 ne făcea să o citim și să rostogolim ochii din cap că ne place, deși nu înțelegeam nimic dintr-însa (da, chiar mi-a plăcut; fac pe nebunul, mă alint), Conchis îi spunea tînărului profesor de engleză pe cale să-și prindă degetele într-o încurcătură de minte și de trăiri mai mare decît putea duce: “dragul meu, generația voastră a cîștigat dreptul de a face sex, dar a pierdut ocazia să știe ce e aia dragostea”.

Peste tot e o tensiune între vechi și nou, între pufoșii recenți și anchilozații babalîci. Încet-încet, și generația noastră face parte din ea, deși structural și estetic e mai apropiată de zona post-comunistă – principala cumpănă de ape cînd vine vorba să se separe lucrurile în capul oamenilor în România.

Mă uitam în seara asta la un film, mare film, film puternic și rău și stereotip și anchilozat, așa cum se făceau filmele pe vremuri, ca la Verdun, scrise de Mihail Sadoveanu. The Bad And The Beautiful, 1952, la cîțiva ani după terminarea războiului.

Regizorul, un manierat pufos al acelor vremuri, Vincente Minnelli, regizor de trăirisme muierești, de telenovele avant la lettre. Povestea, un amestec de siropeală trăiristă a la Douglas Sirk (nu știți voi cine era; un manierist tot pentru cucoane) și de intensitate rea, otrăvită, din tradiția Film Noir – doar eram în plină perioadă de glorie a acestui curent cinematografic la Hollywood.

Filmul, în bună tradiție a acelor vremuri, are tot soiul de detalii aparent minore, care azi bag mîna în foc că ar scăpa publicului învățat cu tare repede și iute, cu mințile desenzitivizate de montajul la maxim 3 secunde moștenit de la MTV, cu tușele groase de block buster, mai tare, mai repede, mai iute, Fast and Furios unu, Fast and Furious doi, Fast and Furious trei, Fast and Furious șapte.

Detalii care însă pentru ochii acelor generații reprezentau cu siguranță sarea și piperul, miezul operei artistice, un întreg vocabular de la sine înțeles de toți spectatorii. O mișcare de ochi, o penumbră, o țigară aprinsă, un travelling, o schimbare de stare pe fața actorilor, o voce ușor tremurată.

E vorba de un registru de intensitate, de o senzualitate de imagine și de conținut și de joc actoricesc care pentru noi, generațiile astea tinere și pufoase și recente, Fast And Furious unșpe, ne sînt total străine. Mă rog, vă sînt vouă străine, căci mie, în marea mea înțelepciune kaghebistă și dinosaurofilă, de pufos care mănîncă filme vechi pe pine, mie îmi sînt cunoscute și le iubesc.

Conchis avea dreptate: cum alții, pe vremuri, căpătau libertatea de a trage cu pușca (da, pufoșilor, e o poezie), noi, cînd am căpătat libertatea de a ne fute năprasnic, tare repede și iute, Ja ja! Schneller! Schneller! Das ist Gut!, Fast And Furious șaptișpe, am pierdut priceperea senzualității delicate, a făcutului dragoste.

Să faci dragoste nu numai cu pielea și cu tot restul corpului, încet și șovăielnic și ca un cvartet de Brahms sau, și mai decadent, ca un preludiu de Bach, matematic și inevitabil și recurent. Ci să faci dragoste și din ochi la film, cînd vezi un gest, o aluzie, o penumbră. Să faci dragoste din urechi și la muzică, muzica aia clasică plictisitoare care își bazează starea pe detaliu și pe aluzie și pe semitonuri, nu pe gîj gîj gîj. Să faci dragoste din creier, citind o carte și închipuindu-ți cum este să fii madame Bovary, printre miile de cuvinte plictisitor de lente și de aluzive.

Sense and sensibility, pufoșii mei. Pride and Prejudice, dragilor. The Bad and the Beautiful, recenților. Și, evident, Fast and Furious douăzeci și cît o fi.



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Stance: Passage to Marseille (1944)

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Stance: White Heat (1940)

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[...] ca un pudel pe linga un viking [...]

Fiind consumator TCM, cam singurul canal la care ma uit din cind in cind (na, ca am comis-o si eu la fel precum Tatiana Tanacu, sa-mi recunosc cumplita greseala),

mi s-a intimplat vazind The Good German sa simt ca e un film shui, fortzat, care vrea sa demonstreze ceva cu tot dinadinsul

si care, mai mult, parca l-am mai vazut cindva, evident mai bine facut si cu o tristete si tensiune muuult mai autentice decit facatura din anii 2000 si restul procesare alb-negru a imaginii.

In seara asta imi dau seama de ce, si-mi recunosc o gresala mult mai mare decit cea ca nu ma uit la televizor decit la filme.

Recunosc spasit ca nu am recunoscut poncifa din prima, ca trebuia sa ma prind imediat, la primul cadru, la prima uitatura a femeii fatale catre americanul cel naiv.

Bly me, it's The Third Man all over, splattered, gushed down, forced upon our gullible throats.

The Tird Man, aceasta adevarata Mama Omida, acest film trist ca un blues cintat de-un negru fara pantofi in picioare si cu matzele ghioraind de foame.

Acest film facut atunci, pe bune, cind Viena si Occidentul inca erau in ruine, in mijloc de nemernicie si in inceput de Razboi Rece.

Mermeleala pretioasa si pretentioasa a lui Clooney, pe linga asta, e ca un pudel pe linga un viking. Cu singe doar prin capilarele de la urechile cele blege.

Hai, uitati-va la The Third Man si multumiti proniei ceresti ca sinteti niste pufosi pufosizabili care traiti vremuri pufoase, roze, pline de singe doar in capilarele diafane de la urechile cele blege de pudel bleg.



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Stance: Chinatown (1974)

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Vin alegerile!

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Vin alegerile!

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[...] contempt was written into her face [...]

I was at the Oriental that evening, just in time for the first show at 8.15. The girl dancing naked on the pagoda-like dance floor, to the accompaniment of a six-piece orchestra, had eyes that were as cold and hard as the blackest piece of Pichler’s porphyry. Contempt was written into her face as indelibly as the birds tattooed on her small, girlish breasts. A couple of times she had to stifle a yawn, and once she grimaced at the gorilla who was detailed to watch over her in case anyone wanted to show the girl his appreciation. When after forty-five minutes she came to the end of her act, her curtsy was a mockery of those of us who had watched it.

[...]

‘Oh, will you look at that?’ he chuckled, with schoolboyish glee. Put a nice frame around her ass and I could hang it on my wall.‘ He tossed back his beer and winked lasciviously at me. ’I’ll say one thing for you krauts. You build your women every bit as well as you build your automobiles.‘

Philip Kerr, Berlin Noir III: A German Requiem





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[...] oamenii sînt exact ca arhitectura [...]

- Ai fost vreodatǎ la Viena? mǎ întrebǎ, fixîndu-și decorația sub epolet.

- Nu, niciodatǎ.

- Oamenii sînt exact ca arhitectura, zise el, inspectîndu-și înfǎțișarea în reflecția din fereastrǎ. Sînt toți numai fațadǎ. Tot ce e interesant în legǎturǎ cu ei pare sǎ fie la suprafațǎ. Pe dinǎuntru sînt foarte diferiți. Ei, uite un popor cu care aș putea într-adevǎr sǎ lucrez. Toți vienezii sînt nǎscuți sǎ fie spioni.

Philip Kerr, Berlin Noir III: Recviem German, p. 69 (Ed. Polirom, București, 2009)







PS: Si in varianta engleza, ca de-aia exista Internetul, sa citim in limba in care a fost scrisa cartea, da?

"‘Have you ever been to Vienna?’ he asked, fixing the cross belt under his epaulette.

‘No, never.’

“The people are just like the architecture,‘ he said, inspecting his appearance in the window’s reflection. ’They are all front. Everything that’s interesting about them seems to be on the surface. Inside they’re very different. Now there’s a people I could really work with. All Viennese were born to be spies.‘"





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Postermania: The Killing (1956)

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Stance: The Killing (1956)

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Au venit alegerile!

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[...] the bullets made no more sound than fingers going into a glove [...]

All she did was take her hand out of her bag, with a gun in it. All she did was point it at me and smile. All I did was nothing.

But that wasn't all that was done. Moose Malloy stepped out of the dressing room with the Colt .45 still looking like a toy in his big hairy paw.

He didn't look at me at all. He looked at Mrs. Lewin Lockridge Grayle. He leaned forward and his mouth smiled at her and he spoke to her softly.

"I thought I knew that voice," he said. "I listened to that voice for eight years -- all I could remember of it. I kind of liked your hair red, though. Hiya, babe. Long time no see."

She turned the gun.

"Get away from me, you son of a bitch," she said.

He stopped dead and dropped the gun to his side. He was still a couple of feet from her. His breath labored.

"I never thought," he said quietly. "It just came to me out of the blue. You turned me into the cops. You. Little Velma."

I threw a pillow, but it was too slow. She shot him five times in the stomach. The bullets made no more sound than fingers going into a glove.

Then she turned the gun and shot at me but it was empty. She dived for Malloy's gun on the floor. I didn't miss with the second pillow. I was around the bed and knocked her away before she got the pillow off her face. I picked the Colt up and went away around the bed again with it.

He was still standing, but he was swaying. His mouth was slack and his hands were fumbling at his body. He went slack at the knees and fell sideways on the bed, with his face down. His gasping breath filled the room.

I had the phone in my hand before she moved. Her eyes were a dead gray, like half-frozen water. She rushed for the door and I didn't try to stop her. She left the door wide, so when I had done phoning I went over and shut it. I turned his head a little on the bed, so he wouldn't smother. He was still alive, but after five in the stomach even a Moose Malloy doesn't live very long.

I went back to the phone and called Randall at his home. "Malloy." I said. "In my apartment. Shot five times in the stomach by Mrs. Grayle. I called the Receiving Hospital. She got away."

"So you had to play clever," was all he said and hung up quickly.

I went back to the bed. Malloy was on his knees beside the bed now, trying to get up, a great wad of bedclothes in one hand. His face poured sweat. His eyelids fickered slowly and the lobes of his ears were dark.

He was still on his knees and still trying to get up when the fast wagon got there. It took four men to get him on the stretcher.

"He has a slight chance -- if they're .25's," the fast wagon doctor said just before he went out. "All depends what they hit inside. But he has a chance."

"He wouldn't want it," I said.

He didn't. He died in the night.

Raymond Chandler, "Farewell, My Lovely"





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[...] he took some photos of me -- with my clothes up to my neck [...]

"How long have you known him?"
"Oh, years. He used to be an announcer at the station my husband owned. KFDK. That's where I met him. That's where I met my husband too."
"I knew that. But Marriott lived as if he had money. Not riches, but comfortable money."
"He came into some and quit radio business."
"Do you know for a fact he came into money -- or was that just something he said?"
She shrugged. She squeezed my hand.
"Or it may not have been very much money and he may have gone through it pretty fast."
I squeezed her hand back.
"Did he borrow from you?"
"You're a little old-fashioned, aren't you?" She looked down at the hand I was holding.
"I'm still working. And your Scotch is so good it keeps me half-sober. Not that I'd have to be drunk --"
"Yes." She drew her hand out of mine and rubbed it. "You must have quite a clutch -- in your spare time. Lin Marriott was a high-class blackmailer, of course. That's obvious. He lived on women."
"He had something on you?"
"Should I tell you?"
"It probably wouldn't be wise."
She laughed. "I will, anyhow. I got a little tight at his house once and passed out. I seldom do. He took some photos of me -- with my clothes up to my neck."
"The dirty dog," I said. "Have you got any of them handy?"
She slapped my wrist. She said softly:
"What's your name?"
"Phil. What's yours?"
"Helen. Kiss me."
She fell softly across my lap and I bent down over her face and began to browse on it. She worked her eyelashes and made butterfly kisses on my cheeks. When I got to her mouth it was half open and burning and her tongue was a darting snake between her teeth.
The door opened and Mr. Grayle stepped quietly into the room. I was holding her and didn't have a chance to let go. I lifted my face and looked at him. I felt as cold as Finnegan's feet, the day they buried him.
The blonde in my arms didn't move, didn't even close her lips. She had a half-dreamy, half-sarcastic expression on her face.

Raymond Chandler, "Farewell, My Lovely"

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[...] it didn't seem to affect her any more than water affects Boulder Dam [...]

"I bet you looked like a dream," I said.
"You're not getting a little tight, are you?"
"I've been known to be soberer."
She put her head back and went off into a peal of laughter. I have only known four women in my life who could do that and still look beautiful. She was one of them.
"Newton is okey," I said. "His type don't run with hoodlums. That's just guessing, though. How about the footman?"
She thought and remembered, then shook her head. "He didn't see me."
"Anybody ask you to wear the jade?"
Her eyes instantly got more guarded. "You're not fooling me a damn bit," she said.
She reached for my glass to refill it. I let her have it, even though it still had an inch to go. I studied the lovely lines of her neck.
When she had filled the glasses and we were playing with them again I said, "Let's get the record straight and then I'll tell you something. Describe the evening."
She looked at her wrist watch, drawing a full length sleeve back to do it. "I ought to be --"
"Let him wait."
Her eyes flashed at that. I liked them that way. "There's such a thing as being just a little too frank," she said.
"Not in my business. Describe the evening. Or have me thrown out on my ear. One or the other. Make your lovely mind up."
"You'd better sit over here beside me."
"I've been thinking that a long time," I said. "Ever since you crossed your legs, to be exact."
She pulled her dress down. "These damn things are always up around your neck."
I sat beside her on the yellow leather chesterfield. "Aren't you a pretty fast worker?" she asked quietly.
I didn't answer her.
"Do you do much of this sort of thing?" she asked with a sidelong look.
"Practically none. I'm a Tibetan monk, in my spare time."
"Only you don't have any spare time."
"Let's focus," I said. "Let's get what's left of our minds-- or mine -- on the problem. How much are you going to pay me?"
"Oh, that's the problem. I thought you were going to get my necklace back. Or try to."
"I have to work in my own way. This way." I took a long drink and it nearly stood me on my head. I swallowed a little air.
"And investigate a murder," I said.
"That has nothing to do with it. I mean that's a police affair, isn't it?"
"Yeah -- only the poor guy paid me a hundred bucks to take care of him -- and I didn't. Makes me feel guilty. Makes we want to cry.
Shall I cry?"
"Have a drink." She poured us some more Scotch. It didn't seem to affect her any more than water affects Boulder Dam.


Raymond Chandler, "Farewell, My Lovely"


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Stance: Le salaire de la peur (1953)

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Postermania: Desperate (1947)

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Stance: The Killing (1956)

Deci daca nu vedeti filmul asta, nu stiu ce va fac. Va dezmoshtenesc, va bannez, va fac kotegaeshi, va trimit Garda pe cap. E musai. E obligatoriu. E bine facut cu de-a fortza. E inginerie sociala. E despotism luminat. E lumina in intuneric. E violenta eliberatorie.

E Kubrick, bre, e Kubrick. E film noir, bre. E film noir.

E cel mai foarte bun.

Hajime!

:)



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